Page 166 of Better When Shared
“You okay there, son?” The American was looking at me with genuine concern. “You’re looking a little green around the gills.”
I wanted to tell him that no, I was not okay. In fact, every instinct I possessed was screaming at me to demand the pilot turn around and let me off this mechanical nightmare. But that, too, seemed like an overshare. So instead, I gripped the armrests until my knuckles went white and tried to remember how to breathe.
The plane lifted off the water. One moment we were bouncing across the surface of Lake Washington, and the next we were airborne, climbing into the gray Pacific Northwest sky with nothing but air between us and the ground far below. My ears popped, and I was quite certain I was going to be sick.
“Gorgeous view. My wife used to love it. Probably still does, but she fucked my best friend so I haven’t asked.” The American did not seem to have any issues with oversharing. “Look, that’s the Olympic Range. And over there, you’d see Mount Rainier on a clear day, but we’ve got too much cloud cover today. I get a kick out of seeing it from up here.”
I couldn’t look. I kept my eyes fixed on the back of the pilot’s seat, trying to convince my body that we weren’t thousands of feet above the ground in a machine that had no business being airborne. The American kept talking — something about salmonruns and tide tables and the best restaurants in Friday Harbor and the waitress he had enjoyed a brief dalliance with every year — but his voice seemed to be coming from very far away.
The flight felt eternal and impossibly brief all at once. Right as I was beginning to think I might survive the ordeal, the pilot announced our descent into Friday Harbor, and my stomach performed another series of gymnastic maneuvers that left me clutching the seat arms so hard I feared they might break.
The landing was smooth, the pontoons kissing the water with barely a splash before we were taxiing toward a small dock. Through the window, I caught my first glimpse of Friday Harbor — a picturesque jumble of buildings climbing up from the waterfront, backed by rolling hills covered in evergreen trees. I might have been stunned by the beauty, but all I could focus on was the fact that I was still alive.
“Welcome to paradise!” the American announced as we came to a stop. “Hope you brought a jacket, though. That shirt doesn’t look warm enough for today’s weather.”
A brisk sea breeze hit me the moment I stepped onto the dock, cutting through my summer clothing like tissue paper. I wrapped my arms around myself, staring at the town spread out before me. Friday Harbor was undeniably charming, and it almost reminded me of a small seaside town in Dorset. The air smelled of salt and seaweed. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries harsh and demanding, and the water stretched out toward distant islands that looked like sleeping giants.
Why had I thought San Juan Island would be a warm place? It sounded vaguely tropical, but maybe I was confusing it with another San Juan, like the one in Puerto Rico. I sighed and pulled out my phone and ordered a rideshare.
***
Twenty minutes later, I stood in my hotel room, and all I could think was: what the bloody hell had I been thinking? The Salish Sea stretched out before me, gray and choppy under an equally gray sky, and the temperature gauge on my phone informed me it was fifty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Fourteen degrees Celsius. Even colder than it had been in Dorset when I’d left.
I collapsed onto the king-sized bed, still wearing my jacket, and opened an email from my assistant, Kyle. I’d been too anxious to plan this grand romantic gesture myself, which probably said more about the fate of my plan than anything. He’d followed my instructions and booked me for a wide variety of adventures: surfing, sailing, kayaking.
Did he not research the weather?
I scrolled to my wife’s contact information, my thumb hovering over the call button. She was less than twenty minutes away in a small village called Hollis Cove, working. I could picture her perfectly—honey-blonde hair twisted into that elegant chignon she favored when she was busy, hazel eyes bright with purpose.
My chest constricted with a familiar panic. This was the bone-deep terror that had been growing in me for years now, ever since I’d noticed the restless look in her eyes. The look that said our life in Dorset wasn’t enough anymore.
“Fuck,” I whispered, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes. The thought of losing Imogen made it hard to breathe. This was more than a panic attack; it was pure, unadulterated fear.
She was my everything. Not just my wife, but my best friend, my anchor, my entire reason for getting up in the morning. From the time we were children playing in the stables of neighboring estates, she’d been my person. The one who understood my silences, who could coax me out of my anxious spirals with nothing more than her laugh. The one who’d agreed to marry me despite knowing how boring and predictable I was.
If I wanted to prove I could be the man she needed, I had to do something impressive.
But what? Kyle’s itinerary made me wonder if Kyle didn’t like me very much. The surf lesson stared back at me mockingly. Wasn’t it too cold here to surf?
Sighing, I collapsed back onto my bed, the exhaustion of the long journey starting to hit.
I supposed I could worry about surfing later. After a brief nap.
Chapter 2
Makai
“Don’t try to fuck this guy. He’s married,” Skylar said as she handed up the surfboards I needed for the morning’s lesson.
“Is that even a risk? I thought the guy was some aristocratic British twat.” I tightened the ratchet strap on the surfboard rack, then jumped down out of the bed of my truck.
“Turns out the twat was his assistant, Kyle. Well, maybe they’re both twats. You never know with twats.”
“Skylar, stop saying twat.”
“Twat.” Skylar stuck her tongue out at me. “Anyway, your twat is hot as hell.”
“I don’t have a twat. I’m a man.”
